He's making a face at her, setting the glass down and actually rubbing at his throat, coughing and making faces at the taste, exaggerating a bit, sure, but still. It was gross. Really, really gross and he honestly doesn't know why she'd willingly drink the stuff. But still, he trusts her, enough to sit back and watch as she moves to the refrigerator, getting the juice and cups.

Age doesn't mean anything to him. Whether you're old or young, that doesn't make a difference in what you can do, how you can act. He's just barely sixteen, his youngest brother is still twelve, his dad's old, with lines in his face and pure white hair. But he still saved the world, his brother still fought with them, and Tony put on the suit again to save their lives. Age is a number. What really matters is what you've seen, been taught, had to deal with.

"My sister's gone," is what he says immediately after she sits down, a look of muted surprise at the actual pain in his voice as he blurts that out. "She... she showed up, at the jump. I told her to find her room, figure out the communicator because... I had to tell Tony she was here. And when I went to check on her, she... she never made it to her room."

Libby doesn't even have to prompt him, this time. She's making the drinks for a reason, he can smell the same scent lingering on her that he can in the drink in his hand, now. There and being swallowed before he can really think about it. He still makes a face, his eyes and nose and throat still sting, but he's not coughing this time. "I can't find her."